


in the city of wyndon

by bunnybunz



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: : (, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Childhood Friends, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends Supporting Friends, Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, not a champion time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:27:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23956114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnybunz/pseuds/bunnybunz
Summary: Hop is your best friend, and there's absolutely nothing you wouldn't give him.
Relationships: Hop (Pokemon) & Reader, Hop (Pokemon)/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 147





	in the city of wyndon

The bright lights of the stadium shone directly onto you, blinding in their intensity. The sands in the field shifted under your feet, the cascade of silky sand contrasting sharply with your pounding heart and blood-rushed ears. Each time your pokemon lands a hit, you take a step back in what you could only describe as sinking dread.

What were you doing here?

The crowd screams loudly, pulsing, alive- and you feel like you’ve been boxed into a death match, again.

You can’t look up into the audience without their faces blending together, their roars sounding monstrous and heavy with bloodlust. Dozens of drones hum loudly and sail above your head like war planes, reminding you of the world’s scrutiny. Millions of eyes all bearing down on you and all your pokemon, and Hop. Your best friend.

Dust rises from the stadium like storm clouds as he calls out attacks, and each blow sends a gust of warm air into your face.

You feel like a monster. 

Does he, too?

The only thing you can see clearly are his golden eyes. You can see the air of confidence and unwavering strength weighing on him like heavy robes, that same façade he slips into every morning in the wake of the rising sun, quietly, fearfully, shamefully.

The audience loves the story of underdog trainers becoming heroes. It reminds them of themselves, Sonia had once told you. Everybody wanted to be somebody.

Strangers live vicariously through you two. Stories of two friends, both meek trainers from the same nowhere town, were whispered wherever you traveled. You and Hop found it somewhat novel to be icons in the beginning, though the retellings of each battle you and him fought began to sound foreign, and barren on the tongues of strangers far and wide.

The scrutiny had worn the both of you down. You had both shifted from being icons to becoming spectacles for entertainment.

The public glorification of the winner and shunning of the defeated sat lumbering in your minds whenever battle was mentioned, and the rumbling of your pokeballs eager to fight acted as a harbinger of worse to come.  
The chat of savagery owed to your battles with Hop dragged at your feet day by day, like shackles weighing you down resolutely.

The tale of two old friends turned to gut each other in battle was far more interesting than the underdog story, and broadcasts were all too quick to pick up on the reception. And so that’s what you two had become in the eyes of the public, half of them cheering you on while the rest sought to tear you down.

Both your names were all over the news, your characters brandished so thoroughly that you could no longer recognize yourself on the screen. Your story had been written for you before you had the chance to live through it. Every step you took was only to fulfill the forecast the media had championed you to become, and just like everyone watching you, you sought to chase unattainable perfection.

Slowly, the sound of you and Hop’s names on wagging tongues began to haunt you like a dreary nightmare you could not awaken from.

Debate of who was stronger, who was the fan favorite, who would win, and who had wasted their time seeped into the edges of your lives- staining it dark with the desire to come out victorious, along with the shameful urge to escape from the ever-smoldering spotlight.

Even your moments of strength were overturned and exploited. As you and Hop scaled the ladder to become stronger trainers and pursue your dreams, each reel released to television showed only the strongest and weakest moments you both dared to display, turning the two of you into husks of legends so mammoth you could only hide behind them. And so you hid.

This was never what you wanted.

Though everyone seemed to think you and Hop were superhuman, looking at him, you could only see your dearest friend and his little Wooloo guiding you through thick grass years ago, before you had your own pokemon. Maybe even more than just a friend, you had sometimes dared to think. His earnest drive was so strong you felt it resonate in your heart, thrumming painfully at the inability to express itself despite proximity.

But it wasn’t possible, you had thought to yourself one late and somber night, the dim glow of the television casting soft shadows in your room.

It was selfish, you thought as you embraced Hop, who was crying silently into your arms, every sob shaking his frame chipping away at your heart.

The news reporter replayed a clip of Hop’s earlier battle with Bede, never failing to capture every flash of frustration and disappointment on Hop’s face as Bede triumphed, broadcasting his human shame for all to see.

“Will Challenger Hop ever live up to his brother and crowned Champion, Leon’s name? Or will he prove once and for all that skill requires work and not just family? Stay tuned to watch Challenger Hop face off against his friend-”

The TV screen blackened, and a seal of silence draped across the room. You quietly put down the remote and rest a hand on Hop’s head, combing through his dark, disheveled hair with cold fingers.

You feel him tremble and close your eyes, exhaling softly into the expanse of the night.

From then on, camera crew who flock to you asking about your victory were met only with an icy wall of silence and blank looks. Fans who cheered for you and implored you to win the next match were also ignored. How could you? How could you feed yourself into this endless cycle that served only to fuel the egos of strangers, and add to the insecurity that only _you_ had seen Hop buckle to behind closed doors?

You shut people out, and fans were quick to speculate on this. Word went around quickly that fame had changed you, and you had a good bitter laugh at the idea that they ever knew who you were.

Hop offered comfort in the night, a weary hand placed on your shoulder, whispering warm words as you stared out the hotel window bleakly, peering sadly into the city alight with life and bustle that echoed deafeningly in the dim hotel room.

In the day, Hop had taken to the light and shouldered the role you refused to uphold. He had become the young and voracious trainer everyone yearned for, and you quickly fell out of favor. Fansigns with your name were turned over and used to display Hop’s name instead, crowds surging with energy and disagreement whenever you took him down in another match.

Uneasiness wasn’t easy to read in his eyes, as he had learned well from his brother how to shine in the limelight. But you knew from the way his eyebrows drew together slightly, how his shoulders pulled into his body- you knew that his worries were reaching its peak. After all, how could the trainer who had fallen out of favor be the one to win the challenge?

News anchors made room for programs every morning to discuss the latest pokemon matches between the four up-and-coming trainers, you, Hop, Beedee, and Marnie, and there would only ever be discourse about whether or not you had deserved to win.

Leon and Chairman Rose sympathized with you, knowing that the scrutiny and gossip that came with fame was eating you away. Leon called after a particularly bad case of media thrashing, and recommended you try to work on public appearance by showing audiences what good friends with Hop you were.

You thanked him, but didn’t plan on taking him up on the offer. You and Hop both knew you were friends, and that should’ve been enough. You didn’t want to ruin the sanctity of your friendship with him by allowing the public to exploit it, even if it meant having a little bit of peace.

Chairman Rose summoned you a few days later and though Hop had wished to accompany you, you had to decline as per the Chairman’s orders.

In that large, white and sparkling office, he told you with a smile that the public eye was trained on you, and was extremely unhappy.  
You had known that for a long time now, but in that moment, you felt small in the red leather chair in the office that overlooked the world. The chairman shook his head, and for a glimmer of a second you might have imagined pity in his strange eyes. 

“The people are cruel.” He said, turning to look down upon the city of Wyndon. “They only know how to take sides.”

You watch him fold his arms behind his back, a flashy designer watch catching the light offensively. “I’m sure you know who they’re cheering for.”

You realize then why Chairman Rose asked you to come alone, and feel weaker than ever when you catch yourself wishing Hop was here to defend you. 

The days drag on.

Each battle you have with Hop ends the same, but you feel no satisfaction from beating him like you used to. When he congratulates you now, he makes sure to monologue about how important it is to not give up on his dreams, but you’re not sure if he’s even talking about himself anymore.

The night before the big tournament, you lock your hotel room door and pretend to not hear him when he knocks. You lie still in your bed and listen to him tossing and turning in the bed next door, not sleeping even after he stops rolling around daybreak.

But the both of you have finally made it this far. You had beat Marnie and Hop had finally beat Beedee, making you the last two challengers standing in the stadium the size of your humble hometown, down to both your last pokemon.

The battle had been arduous and tiring, considering neither of you had a good night’s sleep yesterday. The bright lights bounced off the sand on the floor and stung your eyes. The unforgiving chanting coming from the stadium booths reverberated in your head and made your temples pound painfully.

Hop recalled his pokemon and activated his dynamax band, the cheers of his fans exponentially rising and shaking the court in their fervor.  
You follow in suit, withdrawing your very first pokemon and remembering how much it had grown since Leon had introduced you in the courtyard. With a hefty throw, your pokemon is released from the confines of the large pokeball, landing heavily on its feet and shattering the gravel underfoot. Debris flies haphazardly and a large gust of wind charged with power blows past you. It screeches a monstrous battle cry at Hop’s gigantamaxed pokemon, who returns the sentiment and bellows throatily.

Hop’s last pokemon was also the one Leon had given him, and though it was strong, you had a huge advantage over him because of types. You catch his eye from across the battlefield and he gives you a smile and a wink of reassurance. You shake your head, and wonder why he never learns from his past mistakes.

He orders an attack on your pokemon, and when the blow lands, It’s powerful enough to kick sand up off the floor to whisk into a storm in the air. You know your pokemon has enough stamina to survive one more hit- this was your chance to take him down with your signature move.

When the clamor from the attack dies down, you can hear the crowd chanting Hop’s name. Even he looks surprised, glancing at them with his mouth agape.

The world seems to stop moving for a second, even the sandstorm grinding to a halt as you watch Hop turn to smile at you, honey eyes gleaming with pride and more genuine happiness than you’ve seen from him in a long time.  
You can’t hear him, but you see his mouth move to form the words.

They’re finally cheering for me.

You feel a lump rise in your throat and bow your head and stare at your shoes, your heartbeat slow and loud in your ears. If you thought you had it bad, then what about poor Hop, who had been in his brother-the Champion's- shadow for all of his life? To be compared to not only your rivals, but your very own flesh and blood? You think back to all the nights he blinked back tears when talking about his own future compared to his brother's, and wonder how he hadn't crumbled under the pressure years ago.

You try to calm yourself, but realize you were never nervous. You can hear the crowd murmuring, wondering why you hadn’t called out a move yet.

You think about what the Chairman’s words, and they bounce back and forth in your head as you stare at all the pokeballs on your belt- all your pokemon that have worked so hard to get you here, all the training that you had put them through to be the best of the best. The cheering of the crowd ebbs into your thoughts, and you look skyward, the sun beaming down and into the stadium and warming your cold face.

You turn to your pokemon and call a move that immediately sends the crowd reeling.  
Hop looks confused too, dry lips parted and not daring to exhale for fear this is a dream. His hazel eyes shone with disbelief, flooded with relief and complete and utter betrayal. 

Your pokemon turns to you with an expression that mirrors gentle disappointment, and you turn away, heart aching. You close your eyes as you hear it soaring into the air, far beyond sight. As soon as it had disappeared, it remerges from the clouds, roaring through the air like a jet plane and colliding violently with Hop’s pokemon. 

The announcer’s words sound distant despite being blasted over the speakers- “That wasn’t a very effective move! Oh, what was Challenger (Y/n) thinking?!”

Your pokemon stumbles backward, each fluttering step shaking your soul and the ground below you tremendously. Hop’s pokemon stands tall and sturdy, barely hurt enough to have a scratch.  
Recoil hits your pokemon, and it crumples onto its knees. Gravel flies into you but you do nothing to avoid it. It cries out one last time, loud, pathetic and pained. You feel tears pricking your eyes at the sound. The sound of it falling to the side, body slapping onto the concrete listlessly, makes you flinch.

You can feel your hair waving in the breeze caused by the sheer weight of your pokemon collapsing, but you only raise your eyes to lock with Hop’s. You told yourself when you did this you would smile, but you’re finding it hard to move the corners of your lips upwards without letting them quiver.

You can hear the announcer expressing his surprise at your carelessness before gregariously declaring Hop the brand new Pokemon Challenge Finalist.  
The surging applause from the audience thunders so loudly it almost shadows the throbbing pain you feel in your chest. The colorful confetti popping from all angles of the stadium rained down between you and him, seeming almost comedic given the heartbreak you could see in each other's eyes.

You take a shaky step forward to finalize the end of the challenge with a handshake, but before you can take another wobbling step forward, Hop charges at you with a running start and engulfs you in a choking hug, throwing the both of you onto the hard floor and tumbling a few feet.

He's warm and large as he envelopes your body with his, and his smile is wide and cheerful. He speaks, and his words cut you open like a knife.

“What did you do?” He asked, his voice hushed and warm against your ear. “How could you?”

The wetness in your eyes pools over. Hot, burning tears run down your face, and you can’t seem to stop them.

_How couldn't you?_

Hop presses your head into his shoulder, hiding your face from the drones and reporters snapping pictures. He curses under his breath and clenches a fist.

“It seems Finalist Hop is so overtaken by his happiness, he’s tackled his very own rival and enemy in a hug fit for a Bewear! Ladies and gentlemen, our Enigmatic Finalist, Hop!”

You feel him pull you closer, hands cold and clammy. A grin is still plastered on his face, strained only to you.


End file.
